The dream: I'm sitting beside the Doctor, watching Rose play soccer (sorry, football) with a giant exercise ball, and I know the fate of
the a world hinges on the game but somehow I just can't quite make myself believe it.
The analysis: er, yeah. Freud would probably have a field day with that, wouldn't he? But I don't care about that. What I want to know is, where's the narrative drive? Where's the conflict? Oh, okay, football inherently brings with it conflict and tension, but really, I suspect the use of the exercise ball would sap a lot of that away.
Is my brain so broken that the best it can do, when given unfettered imagination, is to dream of sitting still for a bit?
(I need to get out more.)
I blame it on the joys of apartment-hunting via the internet.